


tidal waves

by mimsical



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Fingering, M/M, Masturbation, Pre-Sburb, Sexual Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 02:11:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12447424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimsical/pseuds/mimsical
Summary: Jake receives a gift and does a little self-exploration.





	tidal waves

**Author's Note:**

> jake is my favorite to write about as a baby queer

timaeusTestified [TT]  began pestering  golgothasTerror [GT] at 12:18   
TT: Jake.    
golgothasTerror [GT]  is an idle chum   
TT: Jake, god damn it.   
timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering golgothasTerror [GT] at 12:19

 

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering  golgothasTerror [GT]  at 12:52   
TT: Are you back yet?    
golgothasTerror [GT] is an idle chum   
TT: Whatever, you can just read this later.    
TT: I’ve told you about how my apartment is just fuckin’ lousy with captcha cards, right.    
TT: Scattered among the various detritus necessary to facilitate the upbringing of only the raddest of dudes, the SBaHJ merch, and pop culture artifacts there are some captcha cards of basic life necessities.    
TT: Like food, for one. There ain’t no decent nutrients that can survive four hundred years of watery doom, except, like, honey or something. My bro might have been a man of mysterious intentions that could only be understood by another Strider, but he did see the need for me to not die of malnutrition on a diet of fish, more fish, and the occasional unlucky strand of seaweed.    
TT: And other shit, like fabric and stuff to patch the walls with when they wear a little thin and start letting the wind through.    
TT: But anyway.    
TT: Sometimes I find a captcha card in an unusual location. Beneath a key piece of equipment on the water purifier, hidden on the bottom of a kitchen drawer, tucked behind the mirror, etc.    
TT: Generally at moments like this I take a moment to summon an unfamiliar lust for adventure, to explore the great unknown and conquer unexpected challenges, a feeling more suited to other individuals who will go unnamed at this time.    
TT: Today I found a card with a hell of a doozy in it.    
TT: Care to guess its contents?   
GT: The never before seen five sequels to weekend at bernies.   
TT: Guess again.    
GT: STRIDER!!   
GT: If you INSIST on sending me unexpected gifts from the future will you at least stop dropping them on my head??   
TT: Whoops, forgot to adjust the coordinates.    
GT: The hell is this anyway?    
TT: It’s fucking lube.    
TT: So this asshole, right.    
TT: He sits there thinking to himself, I wonder what this future kid in the post-apocalyptic world, last man on earth, will need to sustain himself.    
TT: I know exactly what he’s gonna need. 26 bottles of lubricant. Very important to his survival.    
GT: Like sex lube??   
TT: Yes, English. Sex lube.    
TT: Enjoy, by the way. Guess I only have 25 bottles now. It’s not like I could send lube to Jane, but I wanted to share the findings with someone.    
TT: The booty, you could say.    
GT: Good gracious.    
GT: Well your bro has proven as inscrutable as ever i must say.    
GT: I dont think this would make my list of essentials for my never to be known brotherly offspring if i had one.    
TT: I know, dude. Bizarre as fuck.    
TT: I guess it’s kind of considerate, though. In its own way.    
GT: How so?   
TT: Well. You know.    
GT: I dont think i do.   
TT: I just mean that it’s a usable substance. Not to make it weird or anything.    
GT: Oh!    
GT: Yes i see what you mean though all in all i still find it quite a head scratcher of a gift.    
GT: Thank you for my own gift here by the way. I will place it on the shelf of other strange but thoughtful presents from you where i can gaze at it for full admiration purposes.    
TT: Please tell me you’re not going to stick a random-ass bottle of lube on a shelf like your jungle globe was a struggling, small-town museum and the lube was its prize artwork that they advertise furiously in an attempt to maintain enough revenue to keep the doors open.    
GT: I suppose you will just have to live with not knowing.

 

* * *

You consider the lube. 

You’re no stranger to how thinking about Dirk (about him touching you, about you touching _him_ ) gets you hot under the collar. It’s one of the downsides of living alone on an island that nobody thinks to warn you about, how your imagination runs all sorts of wild. It’s all right. You’re pretty damn certain that Dirk wouldn’t mind overmuch, you thinking of him like that. And besides you’ve been thinking about it a little more seriously lately. How you think that Dirk might genuinely want to have sex with you, should there be some miraculous way for you to meet in person. 

What you mean is — if you’re wondering if you could like Dirk back, then surely this needs to be a part of your thinking. And Dirk is so… well, no, he’s a big nerd and a goof and you’ve got his number, he’s nowhere near as suave as he wants you to think! But he tries to be deliberate and certain in his words and actions, and sure enough, he often manages to be so blastedly frustratingly hard to get a read on, that you think… Well, you wonder… How he’d want it. How he’d like it. 

You’re red to the tips of your ears, you’re sure of it, and you set the little tube down gingerly as if it could bite you, and try to put it to the corner of your mind for a short while. A few hours, at least. 

It’s raining, a little light drizzle that makes the air so heavy you feel the weight of the water in the air when you breathe. You watch a movie in just your boxers. It’s too warm to think about getting dressed besides. The day proves easy to wile away, between your never-ending pile of good films and your delightful friends. Jane engages you with the most amusing anecdotes from her day — another assassination attempt thwarted by the quick thinking of her dad, who took down the would-be killer of your good friend armed with nothing more than a tray of muffins and an old hula-hoop. You want to engage Roxy in a discussion about some of the movies that just came into theaters that you’re dying to get ahold of the moment they’re available online, but she’s offline. It must be getting late in New York of the future. 

Dirk proves equally elusive, you discover partway through a confusing conversation that is revealed to just be his fucking responder for the thousandth time. When it tries to insist that you’re talking to bona fide Strider, your real flesh and blood friend, you slam your laptop shut in disgust. Your stomach is a confused knot when your gaze finally winds its way back to this morning’s unexpected gift. 

No time like the present, you tell yourself, and push all thoughts of the AR firmly from your mind. You pick up the bottle and pop the lid off cautiously. Nothing comes out when you squeeze, and you’re puzzled by this for a few moments before you think to check for some sort of blockage. Even more cautiously you unscrew the cap and peel off the foil. This time, once you’ve reassembled the bottle, a little dollop of the thick, slimy substance oozes out onto the back of your hand. 

It’s… slick, not really very appealing, and covers the back of your hand in a slippery coat. This could be very messy. When you check the tube again it declares itself to be waterproof, and with a nervous thrill in your stomach, you relocate to the shower. You’re not exactly sure how to do this. Not the mechanics, you understand those well enough. You set the lube aside, turn the water on, and soap up, too nervous to go right to it. You could kneel, but that’ll hurt your knees. On your back sounds awkward, and on your stomach you won’t be able to touch yourself. You often masturbate sitting up, but you won’t be able to get your fingers near your butt very easily like that. This is beginning to feel like a bad idea. 

You direct the shower head away from yourself a tad and lay down on your side atop the tile. What would Dirk think, if he knew what you were doing? He’s good at explaining things, and very patient. Maybe he would talk you through it. The thought sends warmth curling through you like an old friend, a little shiver of delight. It makes it easier to reach for the bottle again and squeeze a little out onto your fingers. 

At first you just smear it around, getting your hand and the entire area around your hole nicely slippery. You’re sensitive here, which really you already knew. This is as far as your tentative exploration of what liking Dirk would mean has taken you. You’re no shrinking violet, you tell yourself. Are you adventurous or not? You press a finger against yourself more firmly until it slowly sinks inside of you. 

It’s not… immediately good, nor does it hurt. It’s so sensitive that it almost burns. You’re very… soft, inside, and tight. It’s definitely not a bad sensation, but neither are you sure you like it. You pull your hand back to put more lube on it so you can try to push it into yourself and furtively examine your finger. All clean, which is a relief. 

This time is easier, now that you feel less hesitant. You start to relax a little and have fun with sliding your finger in and out of yourself, playing with the sensation and biting down a snicker when you probe your walls to see how much give they have. You’re not hard, though. Your dick is a bit flushed and starting to stiffen a little, but the feeling is just a strange new feeling, not really pleasurable. Except in all the ways that it is, too, how if you shut your eyes and push your finger into yourself more forcefully your body starts to rock with it, and how if you pull at the rim a lazy spark shivers through you. That’s nice, and you sigh a little. 

You really don’t see how someone could fuck you like this, though, not at all. You’re much too tight. Curiously you prod at your rim with a second finger just to see if you can get it to fit. It’s a stretch, but you can, if you’re careful. You can’t get your fingers in so far, though, with the angle and the tightness. But it feels good in its own way, the continuous pressure against the rim. If you crook your fingers here like this it feels really nice. 

Maybe you can understand. It makes you think of how after a particularly strenuous tussle with Dirk’s brobot you can soothe out the soreness in your muscles by massaging the tension out of them. You think that if you kept at this long enough you could ease your body into being open enough to let someone push in. To let  _ Dirk _ push in, his body pressed against your back and his hands holding you open, his dick hard and hot against you, that’s. You suck in a breath. That’s a very affecting thought, ha. 

You squirm against your fingers without meaning to and switch back to just one finger so you can get deeper in. Now you’re respectably hard, but you feel different than usual, less desperate to get a good grip on yourself and more of a slow build through you. Maybe this is what people like about this, how you feel hot all over, mouth falling open as you rock with each thrust of your finger. And hell if you can’t see how good this would feel from the other side, too, so tight around you. If you’re terribly lucky maybe Dirk would like it that way, too, and you can press him down and spread him open and bury yourself in him. 

Maybe Dirk’s touching himself the same way you’re doing. He has good scientific curiosity. Surely he’d want to know what it’s like to have fingers inside himself. You wish you could see it. You wish you could be the one doing it to him. 

You can’t stand it anymore and sit up partway, propped against the wall so you can keep your finger in but also get your free hand around your dick and stroke up and down. You shudder and moan at the mixed sensations. The still-running shower hits the back of your head so you duck down and rock between your two hands, your pulse pounding in your ears and your mouth falling open as your breathing gets heavier. You let the feeling build and build in you, stomach pulled tight against the heat pooling in you, stroking your dick roughly and pulling your finger against the rim of your hole, and it feels so good, you want to tell Dirk how good it feels, you want, you want, oh,  _ oh—  _

In a shuddering rush you come, spunk splattering against your hand and stomach. You choke out a cry at the sensation and sag against the wall, pulse still hammering. You try to breathe evenly as you come down from the feeling of a really good orgasm and extract your finger from inside yourself. The half-crouched position you’ve maneuvered yourself into is hardly comfortable and liable to make your hip cramp up if you don’t readjust. 

Unfortunately, when you go to sit down all proper-like, your poor abused lubed-up ass goes skidding across the tiles, too slick for purchase. You snort out a laugh at your predicament. Oh dear. Waterproof lubricant, right, this is going to be a delightful trick and a half to wash off of yourself. The next time you go to take a shower you are abso-fucking-lutely going to step right onto spilled lube and go tumbling onto your behind like a cartoon fool stepping on a banana peel. 

Holy fucking Toledo. So that’s why people like this. 

You stand, gingerly, and let the water wash off the come on your skin before making a game attempt at cleaning the lube off of yourself with as many suds as you can wrangle out of your bar of soap. After several minutes pass with really only partial success you give it up as a bad job and succumb to your desire to curl up in bed and sleep. You kick the bottle out of the shower ahead of you and scrub yourself dry with a towel, then abandon it with your discarded clothes and pad naked to your bed. Fling yourself down and crawl under your sheets. 

You… want to talk to Dirk. Not about what you just did! That probably wouldn’t go over well, or more likely it would go over like a house on fire and, well, you’re just not ready to talk to Dirk about — about this whole mess of his feelings and whether you’re certain you like boys (you’re fairly certain but it makes you nervous and Dirk could just be a fluke) and you’re still four hundred years apart besides, no you’re just not ready. 

No, you just want to talk to him, see him spin his clever words all orange and flickering past your eyeballs, bid him goodnight and wake up in the morning to him already off and rambling about some happenstance thought he just had to share with you. Your laptop is close by, but when you drag it over and boot up pesterchum timaeusTestified is grayed out. Offline. Oh well, you suppose, and try not to be disappointed as you shut your computer again and slide it away. You can still snag him in the morning. 

You roll over onto your stomach, tuck your face into the pillow, and if you dream of your best friend that night and his long-fingered hands that you’ve seen in the few scant photos you have of him, nobody needs to know. 


End file.
